


Ratatouille

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Challenge Response, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-09
Updated: 1999-05-09
Packaged: 2018-11-10 23:23:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11136711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: In response to a No-Touch challenge, Vecchio and Fraser prepare vegetable soup.





	Ratatouille

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Ratatouille
    
    
    A
    response to James Kythe's "no touching" challenge.  ;-) Pam 
    
    Only a hint of spice....  But all the ingredients are firm and fresh!
    (Except possibly the celery.)

# Ratatouille
    
    
    by Pam Rush
    
     The antiseptic, white depths of the old refrigerator were as cold as
    Mammoth Cave and nearly as empty, at least by Vecchio household standards.
    Ray whistled and heard the note echo hollowly back from the bare cavern;
    he sighed and then flinched, startled, when his sigh was echoed from
    regions over his right shoulder.   The suggestion of warm breath on the
    back of his neck might have been more his imagination than reality, but
    the sigh held at least as much sincere regret as his own. 
    
            "Geez, Benny, don't you ever buy normal food?" he asked, poking
    at a dispirited looking clump of wilted celery leaves clinging to three
    or four slightly brown stalks.   Even the near west side of Chicago closes
    down early on Sunday evenings and it was later than "evening" now by
    anyone's standards.  A profitless stakeout had kept them bored but occupied
    until this hour of the night and now the neighborhood coffee shops and
    delis were closed and the Mountie had invited Ray up to explore the Fraser
    pantry for sustenance.  Thus far their culinary prospects seemed to be
    evenly divided between starving to death or taking their chances in the
    garbage dumpsters lining the narrow alley behind the old apartment building.
    
            "Well, Ray, I've been eating out with you frequently, of late.
    But there should be some--"
    
            The uniformed arm reached past the detective to pull out the
    crisper drawer.  Sure enough, it was full of totally unidentifiable but
    tightly covered plastic containers, tidily plastic-wrapped bundles, and
    lumpy, self-sealing storage bags. 
    
           Vecchio captured what might have been a plastic butter container
    in a previous incarnation and popped the lid hopefully.  In his mother's
    kitchen Tortellini con Gorgonzola Napolitano would have been a good bet,
    but in the Fraser 'fridge it was half full of.... 
    
            "EEWWW!!!" exclaimed Vecchio, histrionically holding it out at
    arm's length. 
    
            "What?"
    
            "That's what I said!"
    
            "No, Ray, you said 'Eeww--'"
    
            "That *means* WHAT, as in WHAT the hell is--"
    
            "Bean sprouts, Ray."
    
            "--it?  It looks like-- Bean sprouts?  Is that like, uh, Brussels
    sprouts?" 
    
            "No, they're--"
    
            "Never mind.  I don't wanna know.  I thought it was albino worms;
    now I just don't wanna know."
    
            "You're exaggerating.  If they were albino worms they would be
    squirming."
    
            "No, they wouldn't," Vecchio kibitzed automatically while poking
    amongst the plastic wrapped items hoping that one of them would holler
    'mortadella and provolone on whole wheat.'  "They'd be *dead* albino
    worms; they'd have suffocated in that--" 
    
            "That's ridiculous, Ray.  Why would anyone keep--?"
    
            "Exactly!   Why would anyone keep half a butter bowl of old bean
    sprouts in their refrigerator?" 
    
            "Low-fat, unsalted butter substitute."
    
            "Where!" Vecchio exclaimed, looking alarmed.
    
            "Nowhere, Ray--"
    
            "Then why'd you *say*--"
    
            "The *receptacle* was purchased *containing* low-fat, unsal--"
    
            "Fraser!"
    
            "What?"
    
            "Is there *anything* cholesterol laden, salted and naturally
    appetizing in this refrigerator?" 
    
            "No, I don't believe so, Ray."
    
            Fraser squatted in front of the crisper drawer as a scowling
    Vecchio elbowed his way clear of the opened door and yielded the floor...or,
    rather, the major household appliance, to his friend.  Before he could
    decide whether eye rolling or teeth-grinding would annoy Fraser more
    and hence qualify as the more suitable substitute for a comment, the
    Mountie interrupted the process with a triumphant cry and stood up, turning
    around and brandishing his treasure-trove. 
    
            Vecchio regarded the trio of undistinguished vegetables in Fraser's
    hands with a doubtful eye.  The view did not improve appreciably when
    he used both eyes either.  Two tomatoes, one eggplant and a zucchini
    were certainly not going to transmogrify magically into a corned beef
    on rye with mustard and 'kraut.   It wasn't even going to make chicken
    salad with mayo on white. 
    
            "Uh, Fraser, it's late 'n' maybe I'm not even all that hungry.
    I mean, I can wait 'until breakfast--" 
    
          "Ratatouille!" Fraser exclaimed heartily, off-loading the eggplant
    and zucchini to Vecchio and turning 'round to peer back into the depths
    of the crisper bin. 
    
            "What!?" Vecchio shouted, scowling even more ferociously. 
    
            "Here's most of a pepper and the celery can go in and I'm almost
    sure there's half an onion and I know I have some garlic...." his voice
    faltered as, looking over his shoulder, he caught sight of Vecchio's
    expression. "....Ray?" 
    
            "Who's a rat-a--?"
    
            "Rat-a-*touille*, Ray.  A French Provencal casserole of eggplant,
    peppers, onions, zucchini and toma--" 
    
            "All right, all right," Vecchio groaned, tensing his shoulders
    and squeezing his eyes shut apprehensively, "it's vegetable soup.  Like
    I said, I should go--" 
    
            "Ray...?"
    
            Vecchio stopped in mid-sentence and managed to maintain his forbidding
    expression for all of two seconds before he gave in.  He could never
    resist that combination of artless manipulation and ingenuous maneuvering
    when Fraser started looking all forlorn and whining. 
    
           "Okay, okay, what'd'ya want me to do with this?" he asked, pointing
    the zucchini at Fraser who smiled winsomely over his own armful of helpless
    vegetables. 
    
            "Peel, seed and cube, Ray, or julienne if you prefer...." 
    
                    69696969696969696969696969696969696969
    
            Under Ray's knife, the thin peel slid easily off the zucchini:
    they were appealing vegetables, he reflected idly, as vegetables went.
    He'd never really admired eggplant, on the other hand, at least not the
    fat, purplish aubergine.  The slimmer, paler Oriental eggplant was quite
    nice. Of course, it was rather like a zucchini. An albino zucci--  That
    made him think about the bean sprouts and he smirked, glancing quickly
    towards Fraser to share the joke, but found his partner standing with
    his back to him as he adjusted the heat on the ancient and temperamental
    stove top.   An  excellent back, of course, with perfect Canadian posture:
    every vertebra in alignment, shoulders straight, knees together, toes
    out, buttocks tucked in.... 
    
            Dreamily, Vecchio pared the sensitive blossom end of the zucchini
    and smoothed over the exposed tip with his thumb.  The meat was cool
    and smooth under his touch....   Long and thick....his hand barely able
    to wrap around the rigid shaft of the squash....  Fresh juices spurted
    and his fingers slipped on the lubricated surface, sliding over the firm,
    white, vegetable flesh....  Hazy, disconnected images slipped through
    his mind but melted away like butter on hot oatmeal before he could fully
    grasp their meaning.... 
    
          "--ready in about twenty minutes, Ray."
    
          He didn't realize that he had stopped peeling, seeding and dicing
    until he suddenly perceived that, unlike his dream Fraser, the real Fraser
    was now standing *facing* him with raised eyebrows and a mildly concerned
    expression. 
    
       "What?"  Vecchio came to with a start, noticing that he still held
    a knife in one hand and realizing thankfully that he had indeed peeled
    and chopped vegetable matter instead of his own fingers while he had
    been daydreaming. "Uh....I was just thinking about, er....bean sprouts....
    What'd'ya say?" 
    
         "I said that it was a good idea to chop everything extra fine so
    that it will cook faster; it ought to be ready in about twenty minutes
    this way." Fraser looked at him rather strangely as he offered the deep-sided
    Dutch oven, half-full of his own part of the cuisinely preparations,
    for Vecchio's contribution.   Ray's bemused glance fixed on his work
    and he realized that he had more or less pulverized the long squash with
    his chopping blade. 
    
          The unfocused and seemingly unconscious gaze that had concerned
    Fraser disappeared as, looking up, Vecchio's eyes focused on the Mountie.
    Then, to the equal but disparate consternation of each, Ray blushed.
    
          "Ray...?"
    
          "Damn, it must be the onions," Vecchio exclaimed, wiping his hand
    across a burning cheek. 
    
          "Onions are supposed to make you cry, Ray, not--"
    
          "Right.  My eyes are watering like crazy," he asserted, rubbing
    at his face fiercely, which would account for any sort of heightened
    color. Fraser's doubtful look was his only reply as he scraped the massacred
    vegetables into the pot and turned away to the stove top. 
    
         Damn, thought Vecchio, that was....  Well, what was it?  Better
    not to name it, or examine it too closely, or think about it any more....
    What the *hell* would Fraser think if he *knew*, even suspected, what
    kind of strange things....  Ooops.  Better not to think about it any
    more.  He glanced at the Mountie's perfectly linear spine and rolled
    his eyes.  God, no!  No doubt it was just one of those peculiar but meaningless
    twists of the subconscious, but Fraser would never, *ever* understand....
    
                    6969696969696969696969696969696969696969
    
        The ratatouille wasn't really all that bad for something that didn't
    have any pasta in it, Ray decided.  Of course, the plentiful addition
    of crushed garlic and olive oil and the fresh herbs from the window box
    that Fraser cultivated all summer helped out.   *And* he had managed
    to hold up his end of a perfectly normal --or as normal as usual when
    it included Inuit paradigms and exotic woodlore dating to the Lost Continent--
    conversation while his mind behaved in a perfectly normal way.  Yeah,
    that other thing was just an aberration.  Probably happened to everybody
    once in a while.  At least, everybody except Fraser.  Nothing like that
    would every cross his frozen-Alaskan* brain, surely. 
    
                (*an ice-cream snack sold by street vendors)
    
          Vecchio looked over to where Fraser was once again burrowing into
    the depths of the 'fridge after some suddenly recollected treat he was
    determined to designate as dessert and smiled wryly at the quirkiness
    of human frailty.  Yeah, maybe it happened to most people, once in a
    while, but not to Fraser.... 
    
            But he was certainly taking a long time to look for those brandied
    peaches. 
    
                    696969696969696969696969696969696969696969
    
       Brandied peaches... Fraser thought dreamily, eyes smoky with an appetite
    seemingly unquenched by a substantial helping of ratatouille as they
    rested on the liquorous fruit bumping tantalizing against the glass surface
    of the jar....   Soft yet firm, pale golden half-globes of succulent
    flesh, sweet as honey but spicy, too....   Ripe and ready to bite....
    Just a nip, perhaps, at first....  But then.... 
    
                                Bon Appetit!
    
    Fulsome praise modestly accepted and criticism cheerfully ignored if
    addressed to the author at 

* * *


End file.
